


How Light Carries On

by Renaly



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Bechdel Test Pass, Canon Compliant, Canonical Character Death, F/M, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Moving On, Past Relationship(s), Post-Battle of Five Armies, ladies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-08
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-03-29 07:19:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,695
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3887281
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Renaly/pseuds/Renaly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Six conversations Tauriel has after.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Light Carries On

_T.A. 2941_

“You did not attend the funeral,” says the Princess Dís, daughter of Thrain, sister of Thorin, mother of Fíli and Kíli.

There are some things that Elves know—the voices of the trees, the light of the stars, the breaking of the waves calling them home.

This is what Tauriel knows: Lady Dís will have the same eyes as her youngest son. She does not know how she knows. But she does. And so, she will not turn to look upon the Princess, even as Lady Dís stands behind her.

“I was told I would not be allowed,” Tauriel answers.

Lady Dís snorts. “You must have spoken to one of the stuffy lords Dáin brought over. I would have let you in, had you asked me.”

Tauriel does not reply. She had not argued the dwarves’ refusal to let her into their burial chambers. She will not take that privacy from them, not so that one elfling can indulge her heartbreak.

Lady Dís sits down on the banks of the river Celduin, a solid weight at Tauriel’s side. The chill from the wane of autumn is in the air, but Elves are not bothered by cold; regardless, Tauriel finds Lady Dís’s warmth comforting.

“Consider this your invitation to the crowning of Dáin II,” the Princess says promptly.

“I… feel I will have to decline that as well.” Tauriel is hesitant, but Lady Dís nods, and Tauriel senses that it is, if not approving, then perhaps understanding.

The water laps at the shore, in and out, steady as a heartbeat. Eternal and certain. The blood from the battlefield has turned it near black, yet still it continues to ebb.

Above them, the sky slowly turns pink and orange from the setting sun. For all that Elves have eternity, lately Tauriel has been counting every second.

After a while, she finds the courage to ask a question. “I do not mean to pry, but… Are you not further ahead in the line of succession than Lord Ironfoot?”

Dís’s voice is cool. “I am.”

“Then…”

“Why do I not claim the throne for myself, you ask?” Dís turns to face her, and Tauriel angles her head, but still does not meet her eyes. She does not need to look in them to know that there is a fire inside of them, however.

“Have I not given enough? Long have I watched my father and brother bear the weight of the crown. Am I not allowed some reprieve from it? Might I not grieve in peace?” Lady Dís’s voice is anguished.

Tauriel is reminded harshly that the Princess’s losses far outweigh her own in both number and emotional resonance. Shame curls in her stomach at the way she has been wallowing in self-pity.

“Forgive me,” she whispers. “I meant no offense.”

Lady Dís’s head does not turn away from her, though her posture seems to relax. “The runestone I gave my son was found upon his body,” she says finally.

Tauriel stiffens. “I—”

A hand comes up to cup her cheek, and in her shock, Tauriel finds herself looking to Lady Dís. The Princess has the same nose as her brother and long face of her elder son, but her dark brown eyes are indeed identical to Kíli’s.

Tauriel is a warrior; she cannot afford to be winded easily. Yet now she finds she has no breath left in her.

Dís regards her kindly. She seems to know what Tauriel is recognizing, but makes no comment on it. “Thank you,” she says, her voice strong and deep, full of that natural authority that only born royalty can seem to command.

Taking a deep breath, Tauriel nods once. Dís releases her cheek, and the two of them sit in silence as the stars appear one by one.

\----------

_T.A. 2942_

_Thwack!_

The arrow hits the target, and a grin breaks out across Sigrid’s face. Tilda claps eagerly for her sister. “You did it!”

Sigrid lowers the bow and looks to Tauriel, eyes shining bright with exhilaration. “Was that correct?”

Tauriel smiles fondly at the girl. “Yes, very good. You’ve talent aplenty.”

Blushing at the praise, Sigrid retrieves the arrow and begins to pack up the quiver and bow. “Thank you again for your lessons, Lady Tauriel.”

“I told you, I’m not a lady,” Tauriel reminds her.

“It feels like all Elves should be lords and ladies,” Sigrid confesses sheepishly, before beckoning to her sister. “Come on, Tilda, it’s almost dinnertime.”

Tilda pouts, but she cannot protest much against the promise of food, and so the three leave the makeshift practice field. Tauriel accompanies them on their walk back to Dale; it’s just a precaution, but she knows not all the Orcs were slain in the battle.

They make their way to the gates, Tilda skipping ahead happily with arms full of wildflowers. Sigrid walks next to Tauriel, and like always, insists on carrying her own weapons. Tauriel cannot help but feel proud of her.

“I really am grateful for you taking the time out of your busy schedule to teach me,” Sigrid says. “It makes me feel useful, not some silly child who needs protecting, and it’s a great relief from all the etiquette lessons.”

Tauriel smiles. “You're a princess now. Princesses should know how to defend their realms.”

Sigrid huffs. “Would you mind telling that to my father’s advisors? They keep trying to make me get married.”

“Do not let them make any decisions about your life without your consent. If they do, point an arrow at them.” This makes Sigrid laugh with delight, and Tauriel feels her heart warm. “And do not concern yourself with my ‘busy schedule’. I am no longer captain of the Mirkwood guard; my time is not in such high demand.”

“Wait, you’re not?” Sigrid asks. “You mean King Thranduil kept your banishment in place?”

“No, he revoked it,” Tauriel says. “I simply found I could not return.”

“What about the blond elf that was with you?”

“Legolas left as well. I did not accompany him.”

“Why not?” Sigrid shakes her head. “Sorry, I don’t mean to pry.”

Giving the girl a reassuring smile, Tauriel says, “It’s all right. I stayed because I wanted to help the reconstruction.”

Sigrid brightens. “In that case, you are welcome in Dale and Esgaroth as long as you like.”

“Thank you, _mellon_.”

Soon they are upon the gates of Dale. Tauriel hugs the girls, and watches as they walk through the doors. She catches a glimpse of the city within, of the buildings that grow ever taller and sturdier, of the streets now cleared of rubble, of the men and women who have begun to smile again.

\----------

_T.A. 3019_

Once, the Mirkwood had been full of life. The Greenwood, it had been called then. There had been light and music, and the trees had shone under the moon. Tauriel does not know when she had first become aware of the sickness that had taken root in her home. For a long time, she’d been able to convince herself that it was not as bad as she’d feared, but eventually she’d had to dispel that falsehood.

It is not until she enters Lothlórien that she realizes just how much she’d been lying to herself still. The Woodland Realm is everything her home used to be, but it is filled with the light of the Noldor.

The elves there welcome her easily, which Tauriel had not been expecting. But in a land free from the spawn of Ungoliant, she supposes the inhabitants need not be wary of any strange traveller. An elf called Haldir provides her with lodging, and refuses her offers to repay the debt in some way.

During the day, Tauriel practices archery and spars with the guards, but night often finds her wandering high up into the trees. The tops of the Mirkwood trees had long since grown together in many places and formed a canopy overhead, shielding the forest from much of the sky’s natural light. So now Tauriel takes advantage of the opportunity to walk high among the golden boughs of Lothlórien and lift her face to the stars.

She does not look at the moon.

It is only a matter of time before the Lady of the Wood finds her, yet Tauriel is still surprised one day to glimpse her walking through the trees. The Lady meets her awed gaze with a smile that can only have come from the Valar themselves. Her eyes seem to draw her in, and Tauriel follows without a second thought.

Lady Galadriel pours silvery clear water into the basin, the sound of it hitting the stone like music. “Will you look?”

The mirror shows many things. There is no way to predict what one will see, no way to know with certainty.

Tauriel knows.

She finds herself approaching the basin regardless, dread and excitement warring in her chest.

The surface of the water does not ripple from some physical force. It simply changes. One moment there is Tauriel’s own face, and then it becomes younger, with sharper angles and a more prominent nose. The ears remain tapered, though the point recedes a notch. A brush of hair sweeps across the chin, red like the thick locks on the top of the head. The eyes darken.

Her son smiles joyously. He mouths a word that Tauriel cannot hear, yet knows to be _Adad_ , and the perspective shifts. The boy is running, and he throws himself into the arms of a laughing dwarf with braids in his dark hair.

A cry escapes Tauriel’s lips, and she drops to her knees at the foot of the pool. The earth is soft beneath her as silent sobs wrack her body. Oh, this is worse, much worse than a runestone or a fire moon or a mother’s eyes. Any other Elf would have wasted away in grief by now, but Tauriel remains still on this earth. Perhaps this is her punishment, for daring to fall in love with a Dwarf?

The soft hand on her shoulder makes Tauriel jump; she has nearly forgotten about Lady Galadriel. Humiliation floods her when she realizes that she has just sobbed like an elfling in front of such a great Lady. “My apologies,” she whispers, feeling very much a lowly Silvan Elf.

“Tauriel.” Is there a word that Lady Galadriel cannot make sound ethereal? When Tauriel forces herself to look up, she finds that the Lady is smiling tenderly at her. “Never apologize for your heart.”

The Lady of Light’s expression is one of such kindness that Tauriel feels an ache in her chest ease just the slightest. They kneel in the grass until the morning sun warms the air and bathes the wood in gold.

Her days and nights do not change much after that. She eats and trains and sleeps, but something inside her is different. It’s as though an old, festering wound has been ripped open and cleaned out, stitched back anew. Still tender, but healing.

A few weeks later, the Fellowship stops in Lothlórien, and among them is Legolas. Tauriel decides not to reveal herself to him; he and the rest of his company are grieving over the loss of Mithrandir, and she will not intrude upon their mourning. And besides, Legolas does not want for companionship; his explorations of Lothlórien are never without his new Dwarven friend, or so she hears.

Only days after the Fellowship’s departure, the Galadhrim announces their intention to march to Helm’s Deep to aid the Men of Rohan. Tauriel volunteers immediately.

\----------

_T.A. 3019_

“It is a good sword,” Tauriel observes.

Éowyn looks up at her, then back at the blade in her hands. “It was my father’s,” she says. “My brother forged his own, but I was not allowed.” Quieter, she adds, “Nor was I allowed to fight.”

Tauriel moves over to where she is sitting on the stone steps, and slowly positions herself next to Éowyn. “Why did they not let you fight?”

Éowyn’s tone is clipped. “It is unseemly for a woman to join the men in battle.”

The oddities of Men will never cease to astound Tauriel. “No one objected to my presence,” she says.

“They would not dare. You are an Elf,” Éowyn says simply. “You could probably take them all out without even blinking.”

Tauriel does not deny this. “So the race of Men forbid their daughters from doing anything useful?” she asks.

“Our job,” Éowyn says, her voice laced with bitterness, “is to mind the children and tend to the wounded.”

“There is no shame in healing,” Tauriel reminds her.

Éowyn looks as though she is biting back her words. “Of course not,” she murmurs, her eyes fixed on the sword in her lap.

The two of them sit looking out at the city fortress of Helm’s Deep. They are in the inner levels, so the bodies are fewer than at the outer gate. The soldiers wounded in battle are numerous, but everywhere people are reuniting with their families. Tauriel makes a mental note to find Legolas later and have a proper conversation—perhaps about his closeness with the red-haired Dwarf. Tauriel realizes she is quite looking forward to it.

In fact, she is surprised at how lighthearted she feels. This battle has done some good for her, she thinks. It has been a long time since she has fought for something, felt the blood pounding in her veins. There’s a familiar itch under her skin, much like the one that urged her to track thirty Orcs across Rhovanion by herself. All of a sudden, Tauriel finds that she wishes to take up arms again, to join the Free Peoples and help rid the world of this Shadow.

For now, she turns to Éowyn. “Well,” she says, “I wouldn’t mind helping the wounded. Will you join me?”

Éowyn considers her for a moment. The rising sun shines upon her golden hair, and Tauriel is struck by the memory of Bard’s daughters. They would be wrinkled and grey by now, if they still live at all.

Eventually Éowyn’s face softens. “Very well.”

“If you’d like, later, I can spar with you.”

Éowyn’s smile eclipses the brightness of her hair.

\----------

_T.A. 3019_

The inn is bright and full of laughter. The tables are covered in mugs of ale, which the Hobbits seem adept at navigating as they skip and dance down the long tables.

Tauriel steps inside, ducking slightly to get through the doorway. The Hobbits do not pay her much attention, despite her height, and she slips along the side of the room and makes her way to the bar.

The bartender greets her with an honest smile. “Hello, there! Welcome to the Green Dragon! What can I get for you, sir?”

The Hobbit lass’s eyes widen when Tauriel pushes back her hood to reveal her face. “Oh, pardon me, miss! I mistook you for a Ranger! Unless you are one?”

“No,” Tauriel says. She brushes away her hair so that the Hobbit can see her ears. “I am not one of the Dúnedain.”

“Goodness,” breathes the Hobbit. “An Elf.”

“My name is Tauriel,” she offers.

“Oh, where are my manners?” The Hobbit puts down the mug she’s been holding and extends her hand. “Rosie Cotton, at your service.”

Tauriel takes the proffered hand, now familiar with the customs of Men. “ _Mae govannen_.”

Still looking a bit flustered, Rosie fiddles with one of her gold curls. “Well, would you like something to drink? We’ve got all kinds of ale—or do Elves prefer wine? I think we’ve got some Old Winyards in the back—”

“Ale is fine,” Tauriel assures her.

“Right,” murmurs Rosie, turning to fill a mug. “So, what brings an Elf into our humble tavern, if you don’t mind me asking?”

Tauriel accepts the drink. “I was in Mithlond. The Grey Havens,” she adds. “I was visiting the Elves of Lindon. They are the ship-makers for all Elves who wish to sail to the Blessed Lands.”

Rosie listens with rapt attention. “Is that what you’re doing, then? You’re gonna leave Middle Earth?”

Tracing her finger around the rim of her mug, Tauriel is quiet for a moment.

“Never mind, none of my business,” Rosie says hastily.

“No, it’s fine.” Tauriel looks up at her again. “I considered it. But…” She sighs. “I cannot help but feel there is still something left for me here in Arda.”

“So what will you do?” asked Rosie.

“I do not know. Now that the War of the Ring is over, there are not many battles that need fighting.”

“You fought in the War?” Rosie leans forward, but now there is more than simple curiosity in her eyes. There’s a hint of desperation there, too. “Did you hear anything of the Hobbits who were involved?”

“You mean Frodo Baggins and his kin? Yes, I met them. An old friend of mine was part of the Fellowship,” replies Tauriel. “Do you know them?”

“Oh, yes, well, everyone knows everyone in the Shire,” Rosie says quickly, and it looks like she’s hedging. “So, they’re all right, then? They made it out in one piece?”

“Yes,” Tauriel says, then she remembers Frodo’s new epithet, courtesy of Gollum. “Well, Master Baggins lost a finger, I heard, but aside from that, they are all well.”

“Ah, good.” Rosie looks tremendously relieved. “Not about Master Baggins’s finger, but it’s good that they’re alive. Do you know when they’ll be coming back?”

“They stayed in Minas Tirith for the wedding of King Elessar and Arwen Undómiel. I believe they should be journeying back very soon.”

If possible, Rosie’s face grows even lighter and happier. “Oh, that’s wonderful news! I’ll tell my father, we’ll have to give them a better welcoming back than Mister Bilbo got. Did you know that his own cousins tried to auction off his things in Bag-End because they thought he was dead?”

Tauriel smiles as Rosie continues talking merrily, detailing all the comings and goings in the Shire. All around them, the patrons of the Green Dragon cheer and sing. It could almost be in celebration of the passing of the Shadow, if Hobbits were inclined to pay attention to such things.

\----------

_Fo.A. 120_

The Hallows of Minas Tirith are lined with renderings of Kings and Stewards of old. Tauriel does not hold a great interest in the long-dead rulers of Men, but studying them gives her something to do as she waits for Legolas and Gimli to finish paying their respects to Elessar’s tomb.

A movement in the corner of her vision catches her attention, and she turns to face the figure.

Even in mourning, her face etched with grief, Queen Arwen’s beauty is unparalleled. In her face is the light of the Evenstar, though it is now all but dimmed. Clothed in the black of a widow, she stands off to the side, and her eyes do not seem to see anything.

Tauriel hesitates. Which would be ruder, to bother a woman in mourning, or to ignore a Queen? At that moment, however, Queen Arwen notices her, and Tauriel approaches her slowly.

“Your Majesty.” She bows her head.

Queen Arwen gestures for her to straighten. “ _Mae govannen_ , Tauriel of Eryn Lasgalen.” Her voice is as soft as moonlight on the grass.

Never before has Tauriel been at such a loss for words. She remembers the aftermath of the Battle of the Five Armies, how everything everyone said to her seemed to reach her through some sort of fog. Immediately, she chastises herself for comparing herself to Queen Arwen. She’d known Kíli for days; Queen Arwen and King Elessar had been married for over 120 years, and had been lovers for decades before that. The two situations are not equal in the slightest.

Queen Arwen studies her. “I have been wondering,” she says, “if the Elven penchant for only one love is a blessing or a curse.”

Tauriel remains silent, unsure.

Something enters Queen Arwen’s voice, and her gaze fixes on Tauriel. “I would not trade away one moment of my time with him, not even to spare myself this pain.”

Tauriel finds she cannot swallow. The Lady Undómiel is correct; there is nothing that could cause her to surrender her memories of Kíli. No matter how much she yearns for more, she treasures what she was given.

Perhaps the brevity of their relationship has saved her. It has been 200 years, and Tauriel has not felt the fading that follows the loss of an Elf’s love. While it is a relief to be spared that ending, she cannot also help but feel as though she is stuck in limbo.

“Do you fear the fading?” she asks before she can stop herself.

Queen Arwen does not appear angry, fortunately. Her eyes drift away from Tauriel’s face, and she seems to think it over. “Finwë remarried,” she says finally. “I cannot begin to understand how he managed to do so. Perhaps it eased his grief.” Her jaw sets. “If that is how he avoided the fading, then I will welcome it.”

They are soon joined by Legolas and Gimli. Tauriel stands aside as the two offer their comfort to Queen Arwen. After a long exchange consisting of very few spoken words, Tauriel departs with Legolas and Gimli back to the Elven colony in Ithilien. On the journey back, Legolas reveals to her that he is planning to build a ship, and offers her a place aboard it.

Tauriel thinks of what it would be like to leave Middle Earth behind, to sail to Aman and live forever in the light of the Valar. Perhaps she will accept.

She thinks of a mountain in the north, of the Dwarf entombed in stone with a token on his chest. She thinks of the cities of Men, growing ever greater. She thinks of their daughters, and their fierce desires to prove themselves. She thinks of the Shire’s rolling hills and bright gardens. She thinks of the orange and red of a fire moon.

Perhaps she will accept.

But then again, perhaps she will not.

**Author's Note:**

> If you'd like to find me on tumblr, [I'm right here](http://deprofundisclamoadte.tumblr.com/).


End file.
